


Golden Apples and Norse Gods (Or, How Ianto Got His Groove Back)

by blackkat



Series: Herding Cats [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), Torchwood
Genre: Adventure, Children of Earth Fix-It, Crack, Crossover, Gen, M/M, back from the dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto finds himself back from the dead and, apparently, in the position to double-cross a power-crazed Norse god intent on conquering the Earth by taking out a team of superheroes. Must be a Tuesday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Apples and Norse Gods (Or, How Ianto Got His Groove Back)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, I don't even know anymore. This is my insomnia out in full force, hard on the heels of watching The Avengers and the re-watching Children of Earth (why do I do that to myself again? I don't even like CoE). Please forgive me.

Ianto gasps back to life in a cold, dark place, feeling as though he’s been dragged naked over broken glass.

This is vaguely disconcerting, given that he’s fairly certain the 456 had killed him.

For a moment, all he can do is blink up at the high, vaulted ceiling, feeling to chill of the raised stone slab underneath him as his mind whirls in a maelstrom of panic and confusion. Then the scuff of a booted foot snaps Torchwood-honed instincts back into place and he stiffens, automatically reaching for a gun he isn’t wearing.

(He isn’t wearing anything, actually, now that he’s paying attention. It’s…unnerving.)

“Oh, very good.” Soft, mocking applause sounds, echoing in what must be a fairly small room. “Better than I had hoped, Mr. Jones. It seems you've suffered no lasting damage from the resurrection.”

Ianto’s blood runs cold as a man in a green cloak and horned helmet shimmers into view. His smile is narrow and cruel.

“Who are you?” Ianto demands, pushing himself at least partly upright, and is faintly surprised when his voice emerges steady and sharp.

One black eyebrow rises smoothly, the look entirely one of condescending amusement. “I might be insulted, if you hadn’t spent the last few years dead. My name is Loki, and I, Midgardian, am your new lord and master.” He paces deliberately around Ianto, smirk firmly in place. “I watched you, Ianto Jones, while I was imprisoned. Those fools who had you before had no idea of your true potential. But I see the darkness in your soul, and I know what it is to be overlooked and pushed aside. Help me, Ianto Jones, and together we can conquer Midgard and rebuild it as we wish.”

As far as recruitment speeches go, it’s the first Ianto has ever had directed at himself, but in terms of being convincing, it falls fairly short.

Still, there’s a (seemingly) (mostly) sane Norse god (perhaps? Ianto isn’t entirely convinced on that point yet, either) plotting the destruction of Earth, which is ridiculously familiar.

It’s probably a Tuesday.

“What would be in it for me?” Ianto asks carefully, trying to gauge how far Loki can be pushed. “You've brought me back to life; what’s to say you won't undo that the first time I misstep?”

There is silence, and for a moment, Ianto thinks death will (again) come quickly.

And then Loki laughs.

“Good, good,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You're not cowed by me. I want a follower, Ianto Jones, not a minion, no matter what that fool Von Doom thinks is best. I want you to think for yourself, as a Midgardian, and help me further my plans for your own gain.” The god passes a hand in front of Ianto’s nose, and there's suddenly a golden apple in it, bright and shining. “Iðunn’s apple will be yours, and you will never die. Simply swear to me, and it is yours. Hel will erase your name from her books. You will never again have to fear death’s touch.”

Ianto has a fairly extensive knowledge of mythology, knows full well who Iðunn is and what her place in the Norse pantheon is. Knows what her apples do. Knows Loki’s daughter, Hel, and her seat as queen of the underworld.

 _Jack,_ he thinks suddenly, desperately, because Jack is never, ever far from his mind, and his thoughts always, always turn to the Captain no matter the situation—but especially in a situation where mortality (or the lack of it) is called into question.

With one of Iðunn’s apples, he could live forever, and Jack would never have to be entirely alone, no matter what.

(More selfishly, Ianto would have Jack _forever_. He can't think of a single thing, in all the myriad universes and realities, which he could ever want more than that.)

Ianto has always been one for plans. He works things out to the smallest detail in his head before acting. With Lisa, he had procedures for almost any eventuality (except, of course, the one that happened) arranged before he even set foot in the Hub the first time. Now, his mind is already spinning, planning, plotting.

Oaths are only binding so long as the person being bound _submits_ to being bound, whether physically or mentally, voluntarily or betrayed by their minds and bodies into doing what is expected.

Ianto has taken an oath to Torchwood—to _Jack_ —that supersedes all other.

Loki cannot bind him, even if he swears. It’s a matter of personal belief.

“All right,” he says, the words blurring, bending in his mouth. Taking a breath—because he will have to act now, play a part like he never has before, and there’s no certain date when he can shed this servant’s skin and be wholly himself again—Ianto swings his legs over the edge of the stone slab and slides to his knees on the floor, directly in front of Loki. It’s calculated not to look calculated, and perfectly executed. Ianto kneels in front of the god with his head bowed, as if he were meant for it all his life.

“My life to you,” he whispers, and the only one in his mind is the Earth and her people.

“My heart to you,” he whispers, and the only one in his mind is Torchwood, _his_ Torchwood, Owen and Gwen and Tosh, family in all the ways that have ever mattered.

“My body and soul and breath to you,” he whispers, and the only one in his mind is Jack.

“Bound,” Loki hisses victoriously. “You are bound to me, Ianto Jones. Feast on your victory, and be glad.”

The apple drops, golden and shining, into Ianto’s hands.

*.~.*.~.*

Loki takes him to a UNIT base in America, because Ianto had insisted on weapons he was familiar with, and Loki had taken that to mean alien.

Ianto, having been expecting a Glock and some bullets, isn’t about to protest.

The compound is burning, which Ianto regrets a bit, but not too much. UNIT is used to dealing with alien threats just as Torchwood is, and as long as Loki is eventually stopped they will forgive anything.

He knocks a man down, tumbles him into a supply closet and locks the door. The soldier swears, pounding at the wood, and ahead of them, Loki laughs.

“Come, Ianto Jones,” he says grandly, and were Ianto not used to dealing with Captain Jack Harkness, he might smother under all the drama. “The arsenal awaits!”

A door ahead of them blows off its hinges, and Ianto follows the god into what is clearly the secure weapons storage. Ianto is familiar with most of the items, from Torchwood One and Three, and thanks to Jack he knows how to use a large number of them as well. He seizes a stun gun and a personal shielding device, a portable perception filter and a small, light blaster that has the alien equivalent of a stun setting.

The entire time, Loki watches him with gleaming green eyes, greedy in the shadows of his helmet.

Ianto turns towards him, preparing to say he’s done, when his eye catches something else off to the side. A portable prison cell, neatly labeled and stored far back on a shelf. The last time Ianto had seen one, he’d been sorting through recently used items after Owen used it to trap the alien possessing Carys.

A man screams, and Ianto looks towards the door, where Loki is staring down the hallway with even more disdain than usual. There's a UNIT soldier on the ground at the far end, struggling to rise.

This has gone far enough. Ianto nods to the god, slipping the portable prison cell from its spot. “I'm ready.”

Loki studies him for a moment, eyes narrowed. “What is that?”

Ianto turns the thing over in his hand, smiling faintly, before tucking it into his pocket. “Sentiment,” is all he says.

Apparently willing to let the matter drop, Loki reaches out and seizes hold of Ianto’s elbow. “Let us depart,” he says absently. “This is enough chaos sowed for now. I have larger targets in mind for our opening act.”

Green magic swirls up around them, cloying and choking, and then they're gone.

The UNIT base lies in ruins behind them, and Ianto can only be thankful that no one died.

( _Yet_ , a little voice reminds him, and it sounds like Lisa. _No one’s died_ yet _, Ianto. You have to stop him before anyone does._ )

He closes his fingers on the portable prison, and very carefully does not think of the plan coming together in his mind.

*.~.*.~.*

Upon returning to life in a remote chateau high up in the Alps (Loki is nothing if not fond of luxury), the first thing Ianto had done was reacquaint himself with the world and what had happened in the years he’d missed.

Therefore, he knows about the Avengers, the Chitauri, and Loki’s first attempt at world domination. Ianto isn’t anywhere near Tosh's level in regards to hacking, but she had taught him a bit, so he knows quite a lot more than most of the public in regards to those three things. Loki doesn't question it—he uses others to understand Midgard’s technology, since humans are so far beneath him, and Ianto’s fairly certain that's his second-greatest mistake—but he listens when Ianto approaches him with the outline of a plan to destroy the Avengers.

It’s a good plan, solid, and quite possibly has a chance of succeeding, should Loki follow it. The god makes his own additions, of course; he’s far more theatrical than Ianto, who tends to keep his plans down to the bare minimum required to pull them off, without any flash or dramatics.

But for the most part, he approves. He even agrees to use it, and Ianto very carefully doesn't let Loki see his relief.

The first part of his own, private plan has worked.

It continues to work, even, right up until the moment they appear in the middle of Times Square, New York, a hundred magical, monstrous constructs behind them.

“Go,” Loki orders, and the creatures lumber forward.

Carefully, Ianto detaches himself from the god’s side and activates the perception filter, fading into the background. It won't work if he’s moving, but he doesn't need to yet. Loki has the stage now, conducting his creations with manic laughter and wicked glee as people run and scream, and a huge electronic billboard topples with a scream of metal on metal.

Ianto holds his breath and prays, because he can't do anything yet, and he’s frustratingly, maddeningly _helpless_ right now, even when people are about to die.

But a blur of crimson and gold suddenly streaks around a building and under the falling billboard, catching it with a flare of blue-white thrusters. Iron Man, Ianto recognizes, letting out a careful breath. There's another figure with him, someone in a red cloak who has to be Thor, and together they lower the board down safely. A jet, all sleek lines and sweeping edges, follows them in, touching down to land in front of the One Times Square.

The Avengers have arrived, exactly as Ianto expected.

Ianto isn’t a genius—certainly nowhere near Tony Stark’s level, or Tosh's—but he gets by, and he’s got a good head for details and a _very_ good memory. He watches Iron Man and Thor stride towards Loki, sees Captain America advancing with his shield at the ready, Black Widow and the Hulk closing in from the other side, Hawkeye at a safe distance (right in front of Ianto, actually, though the archer can't see him) with a grim sort of fury on his face. They're good, even better now than they were the first time Loki tried this, but if one knows enough variables they're also predictable—which Ianto knows gives him just enough time to set his own plan in motion.

The portable prison cell is a heavy weight in his pocket, and feels incredibly conspicuous even though he knows it isn’t.

*.~.*.~.*

The fight goes exactly as he had predicted—privately, of course; he had told Loki that there was no way they could fail, and Loki was arrogant enough to believe that the Avengers hadn’t changed at all since the first time he’d fought them, that they could still be divided and set against each other so easily—and it ends with Loki on his knees, surrounded by angry Avengers, all of whom still hold a bit of a grudge.

But Loki is still smiling, still thinks that he has the advantage here as he looks up, eyes unerringly finding Ianto’s spot along the wall.

“Well?” he demands, impatient and sharp.

Ianto rolls his eyes, but raises his gun—a Glock, still, because that's what he’s used to, and as entertaining as it is to use alien tech all the time, guns have a psychological impact that odd, unfamiliar weaponry never will.

Hawkeye is only a few paces in front of him, and before he even has the chance to turn, Ianto is behind him, safety clicking off, barrel resting lightly against his neck.

“Sir,” he says formally, though he keeps his eyes on the tense muscles of the archer in front of him. “You called?”

“Really, a butler?” Iron Man asks, and the humor sounds unspeakably odd coming from that flat, electronic voice. “You went and got yourself a butler in between trying to take over the world?”

Loki laughs at him, derisive. “If you wish, Man of Iron. How easily your own people are persuaded to turn against you, your own kind swayed into helping destroy your world!” He stands smoothly, rising to his feet, and the whole point of this attack is spilling out beneath him, lines of light spreading across Times Square. It’s a ritual, a summoning, and if it goes right it will open a gat into the netherworld and call forth a host of creatures the likes of which the Earth has never seen.

Loki is its heart, though—Loki fuels it with his own power. He thinks that the Avengers won't do anything when one of their own is so clearly in danger, and that Ianto is still his, bound by every oath that matters.

But the only oath that has ever mattered Ianto has already given, to Torchwood and to Captain Jack Harkness, and he believes with all of his being that nothing else can hold him.

So nothing else can.

One hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder, shoving him down; then both hands on the gun, a two-handed grip Jack had shown him once, intimately, and that a profession instructor had improved upon when Ianto sought him out. The Glock barks once, again, a third time, and Loki jerks back but doesn't fall.

But he’s surprised, and the lines stop spreading, and that’s enough of an opening for Ianto to pull the portable prison cell from his pocket and toss it at Loki’s feet.

It activates, trapping everything within its range, and Loki is caught.

Absolute silence falls across the Square.

Ianto steps away from Hawkeye, carefully sets his gun on the pavement, empties his pockets next to it, and raises his hands in clear surrender. “That will last for one hour,” he says, nodding at the trap. Loki is pounding furiously against it, but it’s alien technology, designed to hold even greater forces, and all of Loki’s mystical abilities cannot break it. “Longer, if you can rig a power source for it.”

Black Widow is watching him warily, eyes narrowed, and Hawkeye has an arrow on the bowstring, even though it isn’t drawn. Captain America looks a bit lost, as though he’s not used to the sudden appearance of double agents, and Thor is just staring somewhat sadly at his brother.

It’s Iron Man who breaks the silence, stepping forward out of the ring to circle Loki’s prison. “What is this?” he asks suspiciously. “Some kind of magic? And who are you?”

“Alien technology, Stark, not magic,” a sharp voice corrects, and Ianto half-turns to watch a man with an eye patch and a dramatic black coat—and really, there must be some dress code that Ianto doesn't know about for the heads of secret world-saving organizations, seeing as they all seem to favor the same coats—stalk across the concrete. “And he’s the one who helped Loki with that little raid on a secret base last week.” He narrows his good eye at Ianto, coming to a stop in front of him. “You're UNIT, I'm assuming, since you knew the location.”

“Torchwood,” Ianto corrects sharply, because he’s most certainly not _UNIT_. “Agent Ianto Jones, Torchwood Three, Cardiff, under the command of Captain Jack Harkness.”

Director Fury’s expression goes sour, and oh yes, Ianto still recognizes the aftermath of someone having to deal with Jack in a political setting. He restrains a wince.

Fury stares at him for a long moment, which has Ianto wanting to reach for his gun even though he makes sure not to show it, and then sighs. The “why do you make my life so damned hard, I hate you all,” is unspoken, but clearly implied.

“Right,” he says, touching the comm he wears. “I want Loki contained and ready for transport back to Asgard. Thor, you'll be escorting him. Stark, find some way to keep that device going; you've got forty-eight minutes. The rest of you…” He looks over to where the Hulk is poking Black Widow, who’s getting a bit twitchy. Hawkeye seems to have lost interest in the discussion, fiddling with his arrows. Captain America stands at attention, but he’s watching Widow and Hulk warily, as though ready to step in.

Fury rubs the bridge of his nose, clearly trying to ward off a headache, and looks back at Ianto.

“How are you at herding cats?” he asks, “And since your Captain Harkness is currently MIA, how’d you like a job?”


End file.
